


Wanting

by crypttid



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, just a ship concept pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28559916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crypttid/pseuds/crypttid
Summary: This was wrong, every inch, every breath, all an abhorrent curse spun upon the tips of her fingers which dug into the fur at his back and the guttural mantra which spills off his lips as each incantation was burned along her flesh.
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak, Female Bosmer Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak
Kudos: 11





	Wanting

This was wrong, every inch, every breath, all an abhorrent curse spun upon the tips of her fingers which dug into the fur at his back and the guttural mantra which spills off his lips as each incantation was burned along her flesh. She could hear the scrutiny which would come from her continued company, metal, and fur unable to hide the angry marks which she’d plant along his flesh as the sounds of their union seemed to echo through cold stone, denigration a noxious fume which would seethe from the lips of those he held council with as they’d lay waste to her reputation. The secrecy which had once been maintained seemingly ripped asunder by some vicious beast within the Nord, ferociousness having seized him as to have ripped her from the common eyes of those who lined the entrance hall of his palace to one of the many familiar halls of his gilded cage and down familiar halls where soon his touch was upon her. Any protests which might have arisen from her throat were silenced by the hard press of his lips to hers, calloused palms gripping behind her thighs to hoist her tight against his chest as he stormed into his bedroom chambers with a swift boot against wood; she gave little objection to the man’s deeds, nor to the potential eyes which might have caught sight of their foreign embrace.

  
She wondered if it’d already gotten out amidst his men, if Galmar would have been able to decipher the sweet lilt of her voice from the nights before when his jarl had made her toes curls and her back arch in such surrender, if those who belittled her existence would soon be raving when they realized the sounds of their lord’s passion had come from her. Galmar had always looked at her through a loathsome gaze that waited for the moment when she would fall from the thin line she walked amidst the court, neither ally nor foe but something in betwixt with a tongue far sharper than the daggers at her side, the old bear patient for the moment when a wing would snap or her nest might give as to let her be open game for his own hateful maw. He had always hated her, always hated the way she sounded as she paraded about the open hall, the way she spoke so plainly with criticism and jest alike, the way she sang their ancient ballads and slanderous songs all in a single breath, and her round, flat face set with large, golden eyes.

  
She was an elf, Bosmeri without shame in the heart of a rebellion that wanted her gone or dead. Neither of which Ulfric Stormcloak seemed to agree with.

  
She felt the cold creep through her leather and fur as his weight pins her and she succumbs willingly to his attention, body already having decided itself the spoils of a war in which she did not fight as the formalities of surrender warmed her very core. Years of propriety learned as both jarl and greybeard alike nothing but forgotten legends compared to the restlessness which had struck him, barely able to lead them to his bed before his fingers had been at the laces of her trousers and teeth at her neck. Breathlessly she laughed at his impatience, a broken strangled sound of matted feelings that was a knot beneath her breast which he had silenced into pleading mewls that spilled from her bruised lips.

  
There was always a seriousness about his features, brows always furrowed, and the lines upon his face sunken and worn into his strangely pale skin. Beneath layers of frozen tundra he carried the torment and trauma of war, tumultuous fires of bloodshed still echoing in his ears as the song of rebellion shared a similar rhythm, such disturbances harmonized within herself as she sought to bury them beneath crooked smiles and honeyed words. It had never seemed to fool the Nord, perceptive in the ways which the world had broken her and how his own sharp edges had fit against her own, jagged and crooked pieces of rage and anguish made by the same hands which had forged his righteous fury and her inconsolable fear, and how they cut one another with each passing caress.

  
He rears back to pull at the bindings of his trousers, shoulders broad and wide as firelight caught in the gold of his hair while glistening sweat collected along his lips, her boots having been toed off the moment they’d sunk to the floor of his chambers before she followed his silent instruction; slender, practiced fingers make easy work of what he had already begun to untie of her own trousers, hips slender and legs limber as to easily peel away the tight fabric which protected the densely muscled legs of an expert climber and thief. She’s quicker than him that she releases a few of the bindings of her overcoat before he’s on her again, large calloused hand able to wrap around her sloped jawline as his lips pry open her own with a heated growl of dominance, the taste of roasted meat and wine mingling with the burning ash of the thu’um she had used outside the walls of his power; fire was everything she had been taught to fear, the crackling of wood, of the forest, of home, a pungent threat which his people found foolish and foreign, but the breath of the dragon within her had, at times, become her savior.

  
She doesn’t fight against the firmness of his length as she feels him sink betwixt her thighs, feels the abnormal heat of his body burn the inside of her hip and illicit a quiet gasp from her throat, giving him leave to trail open-mouthed kisses along her jaw and sink his head against her collar, his palm a heavy comfort around her throat; his power comes from her eternal surrender, hers from the fire she stokes within him that burns away her wooden flesh and leaves her bare and ripe. Even in the impetuosity of their actions, nails tangled in blonde hair and pale fur as his fingers leave bruises along her thigh, through ragged breaths that set her skin alight like hot coals he still manages to let reason hoarsely speak from his mouth against her bone, against her neck, as he breathes in her ear a reformed question that holds the reins to his control.

  
“I want you, Gale, I want you so much I can scarcely breathe,” her breath hitches at the diminutive name he gives her, the way it drawls off the heavy accent addled with the burning embers of lust that wait to be ignited within her, head tilting back to let him continue growing flowers along the column of her neck as he seeks friction from the junction betwixt her hip and thigh, “Will you have me?”

  
It is the only idle plea she needs from him, every harsh remark and venomous argument that ends in rumbling thunder and ice left beyond the sacrament of this room as he begs for her ultimate surrender, for the wilderness within untamed bones to quell just enough to let him glimpse the power beneath her breast.

  
“Yes,” she barely hears herself over the pounding of her heart against her ribs, of the thu’um which echoes in her throat as she catches his lips with a humming pleasure and breathes once more alongside the heat of their kiss, “Yes, I’ll have you, Ulfric.”

  
Her mouth widens and head tips back with the curl of her fists against the stone in wild grasps as she feels his shaft dive betwixt her silken folds in a single shift of his hips, firm hold of her thigh inching up to the curve of her rear as he angles her just right so his impatient entry does little but singe the edges of her nerves. He’s not the first of the races of men to have her sing breathless syncopations through a pleasant haze of carnal desire, but the feel of the rebel leader filling her so deliciously and the heat of his touch scorching her flesh held no comparison to the stray companions she’d experience before; an indulgent sense of power pooling deep within her as she watched his composure strain against the heat of her body, watched as he marveled at where their bodies met and the sight of her smaller form so eagerly taking him in with so little resistance.

  
Ulfric’s breath grew heavy at her neck, entrenched within her contracting walls it takes little more than a few shallow thrusts before soon his rhythm grows in pace and the force which had demanded him to take her without restraint melts into one which begs him to last long enough to see her unravel first. Whereat most times his heated breath would soon divulge into deepened groans of pleasure and wanton desire, the rocking of his hips into hers begins to grow even and tight, deep thrusts stoking the embers within her to life as her body bounced against his hips.

  
His voice continued to fill her ears as his hand beneath her rear shifts and lifts her hips to his in a different angle that meets with the first of his strong thrusts, “Does it ever stop? This wanting for you?”

  
She can’t fathom an answer with the way he rocks against her, his teeth scraping along the outstretched column of her neck and down the slope of her collar, her arms thrown around his neck, against the icy touch of steel still encased around his chest, and into the familiar fur which her fingers desperately grasps at for purchase against each buck; lips parted with every heavy gasp of pleasure that tumbles off her tongue at each measured thrust of searing heat fills her, delicious mewls of encouragement his favourite song which hooks his features into a languid, uncharacteristic smile. When his thrusts deepen, one moment empty and wanting the other soon satiated and overflowing, she dissolves further into the flames of their conjoined desire burying her face within the musky scent of fur and leather as her free leg unconsciously spreads invitingly wider for the bear who takes her with such strength.

  
“Even when you’re not here, you’re all that fills that damned room,” a part of her wants to laugh, to roll her head back and smile up at him through glazed pleasure as though they were nothing but warrior and thief, Nord and Bosmer, man and woman, but the hiss in his tone causes her to tense around him and he bites harder against her neck, “the city sings when you’re gone, even my council isn’t free of you and by Talos it’s maddening.” Another edge that cuts them both, his fury a forged dagger that slices through the haze to let reality once more peer through and remind her that this is entirely wrong; his adage ringing in the back of her mind as he had sworn to purge the land of those like her, of the elves which called Skyrim home all the same.

  
Nightingale can’t help the reply that rises through the molten heat of their coupling as she eases back her surrender, using her weight and surprise to roll them over with a swiftness that reminds the Nord the weapon he holds in his hands, the dragon which few have had such a pleasure to see, body delightfully aching as she feels his shaft slick against the tender flesh of her thigh. The look in his eyes was worth more than the words that come to her lips, clear blue eyes swallowed by black lust wide with momentary confusion as breathlessly she responds with a hand upon his chest and a honey-laced grin which might assuage what hardened guilt had poignantly pressed against her throat, “Think not about if the wanting will stop, for even if it is within the hour that you want me again, then here I shall stay, if only so to let them hear me sing of you, my Jarl.”

  
Her own calloused fingers curled around his wet shaft to slowly align their hips once more and sink upon his length with a sweetened moan erupting from her parted lips. His hands dug into the supple flesh of her thighs as she watched his head tilts back against the unforgiving stone with a low moan rumbling up through his throat, fading into a subtle hearty groan which echoes in her ears as the chill of his chambers is soon replaced with the scorching heat of her foreign body. This room was to remain a sanctuary from the responsibilities of the worlds in which they lived, where nights were spent in hedonistic equality and shared whispers of old wounds hidden beneath leather and fur; beneath the chill of the rising moon, they could just be man and woman till the warmth of the morning sun reminded them of what remained.

  
She didn’t even try to swallow back or muffle the noises of her desire as her hips rose and fell with the heavy thundering of her own heaving chest, steel and leather hiding Ulfric’s own pounding heart from her touch as she leaned back and called his name; her yelp flowed into the melody of her pleasure as she felt the taut yank to her fur-lined overcoat being forced open, freeing her ample bouncing bosom which rocked to the rhythm of her hips. War ravaged hands rough against the delicate flesh of her breasts, thin cotton layers roughly yanked upward as Ulfric adjusted himself up just enough to capture one hardened nipple betwixt his fingers and the other in his teeth; she let out a cry in a language he didn’t understand, a sweet songbird nesting in his lap which played a sweetening melody only for him, and he can’t help but hums against her breast in victory.

  
He knows she’s beginning to burn away, the muscles in her thighs growing tense as she continues to ride along his length in shallow thrusts, her walls constricting around him tighter and tighter with every heave of her body into his own. Her fingers dig into the flesh at his neck and sweat-slick hair, her head bowing into the crook of his neck with an echoing cry of pleasure ringing hotly in his ear, the very stones of his palace rattling around them in chorus like some long lost thu’um had spilled from her lips as she contracts wildly around him. He soon joins her chorus with a reverberating moan that dies on his lips, her walls tightening and then spasming against his length, coaxing him over the edge as he holds her flush against his hips and spills within her wave after wave.

  
“Ah, you’re searing hot,” her voice is almost playfully delighted as she nearly falls against his shoulder, devilishly coaxing herself amidst the warm, soft fur of his cloak, breathless with a giddiness that was met with the brisk, tired huff of the man still comfortably sheathed and spurting within her, “you Nords are always so hot, it’s no surprise the cold doesn’t seem to touch you.”

  
“Nords are made of sturdier stuff than you elves,” his voice is harsh again, curt with the momentary exhaustion that builds in his muscles and bones from their union, the hard stone floor having done little favour for comfort alongside the bite of his steel breastplate, “though you seem to complain about it far more often than most.”

  
“Home is a hot, dense jungle far south of here, where sweat clings to your skin and the sun seems to never set,” she breathes against his neck, the rough scratch of his jaw a foreign comfort to the Bosmer, before sharpened teeth pull at the lobe of his ear, eliciting a sharp hiss from the Nord who’s fingers dig further into the flesh of her hips, “the closest I get to that feeling is when we’re like this, pressed so close together with our limbs tangle and the sweat from your heat coats my skin while inside you burn away the remnants of other men who had taken their fill. Add some plants to your chambers and I may never need to leave again.”

  
She knows how those words might incite him, that hot temper building in the way his grip holds her still against his hips, still firmly within and twitching within her silken folds, piercing stare cutting through her warm, amber eyes that challenge and affirm the building spark that lights his temper. She’d rather see sparks of what might be jealousy than the icy sharpness of his fury, the Bear of Windhelm, a far less pleasurable companion to the man beneath her.  
It takes a moment of adjusting but he manages to rise to his feet with her still glued against him, her weight seemingly comparable to any standard shield or sword as his muscles rippled under where his arms moved to better support her, each step he took to climb towards his bed punctuated with the sharpness of his tone, “Who says you’re free to leave when you like, little elf? Did you not just say that should I want you, even within the hour, that you would stay?”

  
The bed of furs bounced lightly with her weight before he began to strip off the rest of her outer coat and rips at the bindings of cotton liners beneath, leaving her naked amidst the mass of furs that warm her skin. Her own fingers pull loose the thin leather binding which holds her hair, watching as he strips aside the last few layers that separate flesh from flesh with a loud clattering of metal upon stone. He stands betwixt her open thighs as one leg remains in his grasp and the other sinks to the cool stone floor, his hips slowly beginning to thrust shallowly within her, stirring the heat that he’d poured within her only moments before. A soft mewl of igniting pleasure sparks within her core as one of his calloused thumbs finds the bundle of nerves that send poignant waves of heat through her body, slow circles matching the slow shallow thrusts of his hips as she clutched at dark furs with heavy breaths.

  
“You’re not going anywhere, my little bird.”


End file.
